


a skein of flesh we weave

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Armitage Hux, Bruises, Dysfunctional Relationships, Extremely Dubious Consent, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, M/M, Physical Abuse, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, Strangulation, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Top Kylo Ren, set immediately after Crait
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:00:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23138074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: Hux has made plenty of sacrifices in his life.What's one more, when it comes to surviving the aftermath of Crait with his aspirations intact?
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren
Comments: 5
Kudos: 196





	a skein of flesh we weave

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write some cruel SL Kylo content, so this is what came out. 
> 
> Kind of struggling with writing once more, so little drabbles are all I can really muster for the time being.

There’s a rage in Ren that even a cold man like General Hux could never truly calm.

In a way, he’d known that from the very moment he first met him. Back then, Ren’s fire had burned, but under the surface, simmering like lava that had briefly cooled over but in time would rise up, form cracks—explode. And yet, back then, Hux had allowed himself to believe the always steady, oftentimes cruel hand of the Supreme Leader would keep Ren tempered for the time being, keep him a loyal tool rather than an uncontrollable plague that would run roughshod over the entirety of the galaxy—as well as all of Hux’s carefully laid plans.

A mistake. One he pays for, now, in Ren’s bed, Snoke’s blood no doubt still wet on the floor of the mangled _Supremacy_. They’re technically safe aboard Ren’s shuttle, but Hux has never felt his life is in more in danger than it is right now.

Ren has him pinned down against the slightly-too-small cot squashed against the side of the hull, their pants barely shoved down before Ren jammed inside of him without preamble or much prep aside from a single shaky, spit-slicked finger probed inside of him. Every action born of hasty, rote memory, with little affection behind them. Hux’s boots hover on both sides of Ren’s head, toes curling out of such pain and unfortunate pleasure that the nails scrape against the inner soles.

Hux coughs, sending pain down his throat and into his chest. His ribs still twinge from untreated injuries, incurred earlier, subsequently ignored. He hasn’t had a moment to examine them himself and Ren seems disinterested, absorbed only in bending Hux in half as he rams the life of out Hux. His hips are starting to numb—at this point, Hux can only hope the narcotic throb of Ren’s violent, possessive onslaught will steal the pain from the rest of his body. Perhaps then, he could wake up and pretend this—all of this, from the death of Starkiller ‘til now—was just a horrific bad dream.

But Hux can’t shut out everything. Even if he lost all feeling in his body, he could never ignore the assault on the rest of his senses. The grunts, groans, and hoarse swears rebounding in a hollow knell against the walls of the barren hull. The sight of Ren above him, sweat streaked down his dirtied face, hair wild and matted, eyes closed while Hux’s remain stretched wide-open. The smell, the smell of filthy musk, of burnt ozone, the unassailable _stench_ that sinks into Hux’s lungs and threatens never to leave.

When Ren forces a kiss onto Hux, he tastes the lingering salt of Crait and the sweat of regret, of defeat. He licks it off the split crack in Ren’s lip, tastes his blood briefly before Ren digs his fangs into Hux’s lower lip, and suddenly his mouth is all awash with the metallic tinge of his own, fresher wounds.

Robbed of numbness, Hux feels Ren’s hands shift from clenching into the bed to pawing at his chest. Finger press into the bruises beneath the gabardine, making Hux flinch and mewl at the shocks of pain that lance across his lungs. He coughs, tries to make some kind of protest in his throat, but Ren sees to that when his heavy palms close tightly over it.

Still thrusting, Ren tightens his grip. His eyes are open now, desolate and black and locked with Hux’s, but Hux’s own sight starts to shimmer and spark at the sudden lack of air. He bucks up involuntarily, juddering himself onto Ren’s cock, half-kicking one of his boots off in a desperate, useless reflex. Hux wheezes, for the first time resisting this as he presses his fingers into the back of Ren’s hands, feeling the tension in his strong, bulging ligaments. Hands that could crush, could kill, hands powerful enough that he didn’t even need to touch Hux to make him suffer.

Ren had proved that. There are already marks, already puffy swollen flesh ringing Hux's windpipe like a bad reaction to unnecessary stimshots, as striking a piece of evidence of Ren’s meteoric rise to power as the bifurcated corpse of his master, or the red-streaked flats of Crait.

Hux knows—Ren’s hands will take residence there from now on, laying claim with a collar of bruises around the neck that will never fade, not while Hux is still within Ren’s grasp.

And Hux has no doubt that Ren will keep him at his side for as long as he possibly can—until one, or both of them, are dead. He knows, even as Ren’s hands tighten like a vise, like a looming event horizon, around his neck, that Ren won’t dare go far enough as to kill him.

Not when Hux can still be fucked like this.

And fuck him Ren does. Hips thrusting, unsatiable, unstoppable, keeping Hux on the edge of life and orgasm as he chases his own climax, his own goals, using Hux as a means to an end. And yet, when Ren finally roars and throws back his head and buries his spurting cock deep inside of his general, Hux feels the tell-tale splash of his own come streaking down his angled body, spotting on his rumpled uniform.

He floats, feeling everything and nothing all at once, until Ren finally releases his throat beneath his palm. Then, finally, Hux blooms into a breath, vision sparking, fuzzy, numbing pain settling into his skin and bones.

Ren pulls out and rolls off, lies down beside him. Hux doesn’t hurry the rush of sensation back into the body, knowing it will only invite the return of the pain, the reminder of his injuries. For a moment, as his vision coalesces back into the reality of his new life, he stares at Ren’s face. Studies it. Finds the soft edges and vulnerable spots still residing within that monstrous visage, and emblazons it into his mind for next time. For there will be a next time, Hux knows. There will be an endless chain of next times, spiraling off into the void that drags them both down to drown, entangled in one another.

There’s a rage in Ren that no one, not a soul in the entire galaxy, could ever truly calm. Without proper diversion, without _sacrifice_ , everything would burn. Nothing would survive such a firestorm of sclerotic, single-minded fury.

 _So let Ren use him_ , Hux thinks as he sinks into darkness against the slab of the indifferent cot, _or else there will be nothing but charred rubble and black holes left to rule._

And that won’t do at all. After all this—Hux deserves an empire.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on [Tumblr](http://thethespacecoyote.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heir_of_breath7/).


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